Closer
by piratesmiley
Summary: Peter/Olivia. "He had no excuses, no thoughts, really, just a drive to be in a place that he wasn’t."


A/N: for wjobsessed, who asked me to write another makeout. :)

Spoilers: Bad Dreams, Midnight

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe.

* * *

He wasn't sure how he got there, what possessed him to come down, and he had no excuses, no thoughts, really, just a drive to be in a place that he wasn't.

He knew she'd be in there. Working, tireless. Late at night. No one around. He knew he'd find her.

The last two weeks they'd endured … the dreams, frightening burdens to force open the flow of insanity she kept tightly bottled; the sacrifice of man for woman, eerily similar to the things they had witnessed just months before. Relentless, the problems, issues, dilemmas never ended for him, for the two of them, for _all_ of them, but she took it the hardest. Always.

He crept toward the light crossing shadow through the door frame, soft yellow and warm like candles on a birthday cake or an extremely diluted sun, only lighting them up. He leaned against the wall, realizing that despite his sleep deprivation – the very lethargy that made him come – he could actually fall into heavy slumber right there.

What was it about her presence that made that so? He knew he calmed her, he had _seen_ that, but the fact that she did the same for him hadn't come up yet.

She noticed him watching her and almost laughed piteously, but her smile was true and bright. "I figured you'd show up. Eventually." Her worn, warm eyes rake over his cotton t-shirt and back up. For an instant, she looked hungry.

He ignored that. Mostly likely just a byproduct of the deceptive lighting.

He pushed off his resting spot and walked to her, setting his hands to rest on the desk, one on either side of her, effectively trapping her there. He looked at the file she had been reading before. She snapped it shut.

"Aww, come on, Dunham. You don't trust me?"

She seemed to be really asking herself, _do you trust him_? Although he knew that _trust_ wasn't really a factor into who they let read the top-secret government files.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. He laughed, and she felt the reverberations. Olivia tried to stand, but was still confined to him, so she ended up crouched, him bending her over the desk. She turned but realized he was too close too late to stop herself.

And so they were staring each other in the face.

"I felt you," she blurted.

He stopped breathing. This was wrong. This was dangerous.

"I slept and somebody died … but I felt you."

He let his forehead drop to hers. She closed her eyes. His hands wandered down the plains of her skin, from her throat to her hands.

She sighed. "I feel you."

And now they were too deep to come back up for air.

He put his mouth to hers slowly, softly, and she groaned. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pressed closer, pushing him backwards until he was up against the wall. His hands mussed her hair, traveled down and under the confines of her shirt, scrambling up and letting her shiver until they were both heated and there wasn't a likely chance for _slow_ anymore.

The truth was, she shouldn't like him. She shouldn't want him. He had wanted to leave this place for a long time – if he was being honest, since he first stepped foot back on American soil – and desolately, as much as he wanted to, he couldn't take her with him anyway. Besides, with his track record, she was much better off with someone better, someone safe.

That made him angry, blood-boiling, but he kept holding her. No need to alarm her tonight.

He didn't have a chance to think farther because she kept kissing him, her tongue begged for access to his mouth and he obliged, ever so willing. Her mouth tasted sweet and bitter, a little bit like her. He began to undo her button-down, letting his fingers follow the trail newly exposed until her head fell back and she sighed longingly. He pushed it down her shoulders so he could finally see. He was in awe, fingers lightly dabbling on her smooth, white stomach, the sweet space between her breasts, tracing nonsensical patterns for long enough that she slowed down and smiled, watching him watch her, touch her. Finally he let his fingers travel down toward her waist, body begging for more. Her hands gripped his shoulders while he slid down her pants and glided along the back of her thighs, pulling her closer; she sounded, his name slipping out, demanding attention between breaths.

"Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"Clothes."

"Yeah?"

"You're still wearing them," Olivia reminded.

She had only managed to remove his shirt before they heard a gasp in the doorway.

An aging woman stood, cart full of cleaning supplies, gaping into the scene – a very undressed Olivia pressed against a very _happy_ Peter.

She stuttered for a moment. "_Je reviendrai plus tard!_"

"_Merci,_" Olivia answered in utter gratitude.

The woman disappeared, and Peter was stunned. "A _French maid_? _Seriously_?"

Olivia threw her head back and laughed. Inappropriate thoughts plagued him instantaneously, and he stirred.

"Let's go."

"Where?"

That stumped him. "Walter said he'd let us have the room if we needed it."

Olivia laughed. "I remember. But I don't think that's such a good idea. Listen, I'm sure Rachel and Ella will be asleep …"

"You want to risk that? What if Ella wakes up and—"

"You're right," she cut off, pulling her pants back on. He said goodbye sadly to her bare legs, and she rolled her eyes. It was such an interesting gesture, something foreign on her face, so he kissed her softly again.

She smiled.

"I have an idea."

"What's that?"

"We could get a room near yours…"

Now, that was surprising. "Are you sure…?"

She gave him a look, surely to kill. "Do you really want to make me _wait_?"

He groaned, licked his lips hungrily, and trailed after her. "No, I do _not._"

* * *

Any native french speakers who can tell me if I wrote actual French that made sense...? :)


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